Masked

The man with the stocking over his head rifled through Lily’s drawer with his left hand, pointed the revolver at her with the other. Lily lay in the bed, holding the sheet up to her chin, her mouth dry, her hands and feet clammy, and her stomach churning.

So this is what it was like, living in those last moments of life. It’s how those people on United 93 felt back on 9/11 as the plane plunged into the Pennsylvania ground. It’s what Princess Diana felt in that horrific half hour after the Alma Tunnel. It’s what Martin Luther King felt as he saw the concrete ceiling outside his hotel room in Memphis. And when Jack Kennedy looked at Jackie in that last split second before the third shot blew open his head, it’s what he felt. The end.

Odd, it had a strange peace to it, knowing the end was only moments away. No more worry, no more anxiety over paying bills, saving for retirement, wondering if she’d ever get married, wondering how she’d ever raise kids in this crazy world. No more responsibility, no nothing – just sleeping, that endless sleep.

The man continued pointing the revolver at her. He made his way to the bottom left drawer. He’d find it. Her grandmother’s engagement ring. Two little diamonds surrounding a much larger one in the middle. Granddad had given it to her in 1923, and when Nanny had died, her mother had gotten it. And when Mother died two years ago, Lily had gotten it. And now it would find its way to the black market.

Without knowing why or how, she jumped out of the bed with a pillow, shielded her head from the bullets, and ran over to the man and grabbed his arm. They struggled for a moment and then she sank her teeth into his arm and bit as hard as she could. The man let get go of the gun, she grabbed it, and shot him in the head.

“Now you know what it’s like,” she said, putting another bullet in his chest, just to make sure he was dead, dead, dead. “Now you know how Princess Diana felt.”

Gray

Raul de Paulo sat in the high-backed chair against the back wall, his cane resting between his legs and a heavy frown resting on his face. Madeleine Hammerstein sat in front of him on a stacking chair with her St. John house dress and 65-year old gray bob. Jack Zimbalist and his hairless legs sat in his Izod shorts and Sperry top-siders. Rachel Brady and her tie-dyed faded blue jeans, Botox forehead, and permed blonde curls sat between Jack and Madeleine. And Laura Weisskopf with her Aunt Clara dress and bouffant hair-do sat in the front of the group, the avenging matriarch.

These five – and the faceless others at the meeting with the same expression, pursed-tight-white lips, flaring nostrils, and white going all the way to their ears – stared us down in those minutes before it began. We usually talked about each other’s month in those minutes before Ron Barlow called it to order from his perch at the center of the table, but not a peep came from any one of us – just looks that had question marks in the eyes and exclamation points in the eyebrows.

“Ladies and gentlemen, let’s call the meeting to order,” Ron said, and the five of them, as if on cue, began the assault.

“What in the hell were you thinking with that gray paint –“

“This is not the color we voted for –“

“It was supposed to be a light tan –“

“You people are always pulling the rug out from under us –“

“I’m filing a lawsuit –“

Ron closed his eyes, but kept talking, “A moment before the war begins, people. Roll call from the left …”

God help me when they got to my name. I’m the one who pushed everyone to vote for these colors. Perhaps I could run and hide in my bathroom closet.

Suspense

Oh, God. Not again. Not another earth-shattering revelation, or another cataclysmic decision. If what Geoffrey made on a mind-numbingly frequent basis could be called “decisions.” They were more like whims.

“What is it … now?” Donnie said. He wondered what it would be. Was Geoffrey leaving again? Had he resumed the relationship with the skanky Noel? Had he stolen from someone? Did he have an incurable disease? Had he found something out about that one time in …

Geoffrey’s mouth quivered and his eyes watered up. Donnie stared at him and he turned away.

“Come on, Geoff, nothing can be that bad. What is it, what is it sweetheart?” Geoffrey never cried.

Geoffrey turned around, sucked his breath in, and looked at Donnie, the tears coming down his face …

“I can’t tell you,” he said and ran past Donnie. He opened the door and ran out. “I just can’t tell you.”

Damn, Donnie thought. Another mystery prolonged.

Tropical Dudleys

“Oh, Dudley, sweet pretty bird!” I said as we opened the sliding glass door to the terrace. “Look who’s home …”

“It’s just a stupid bird,” Geoffrey said. “Quit your squawking over it.”

I looked at Geoff and hoped he saw daggers in my eyes. “Never you mind, sweet little thing. Don’t you mind the big bad wolf. He’s a meany and he doesn’t love anything.”

Geoffrey snorted. “Yeah, right, like I don’t love you. Like I live with you for seven years and I don’t love you. Now how foolish crazy is that.”

“Exactly as I’ve wondered. Come, Dudley,” I said, “let Donnie play with his sweet pretty little bird. And look what I’ve got for you! I’ve got a treat …”

“For crying out loud, you treat that bird better than you ever treated me. If you gave me –“

“If I gave you?” I said. What hadn’t I given that no-good moocher these past years? “The only thing you’ve given me in the past seven years is a bad case of clap.”

“Enough of that. We went through that two years ago. You had to bring it up, you just had to bring up yesterday’s news. Well, go screw –“

“Be nice,” I said. “Dudley has impressionable ears for a parrot. He’ll get all nervous like and start plucking his feathers. Just like when you were seeing that horrible Noel thing –“

“Which brings me to something I have to tell you, Donnie …”

Breasts

The breasts chased him all the way through the tunnel, and when Jason got out of the tunnel, he fell off a cliff, down the ravine, and toward the watery abyss. He could feel his heart and lungs stopped, the air whisking by him, pulling the skin from his face into his skull. But then he was saved by the breasts that had made their speedy way past him to just above the water, and they enveloped him in a warm embrace that had his heart beat and breathing returning to normal.

The breasts flew him to a green pasture with rolling hills as far as the eye could see. Green and blue, with a touch of orange on the horizon, filled the panorama.

He suckled on the left breast but left the right one alone. The right breast began to slap at the left one, jump up and down, and nudge Jason in the back of his head. But Jason kept suckling on the left breast, gathering milk for life-sustenance, and ignored the right breast’s entreaty.

When satiated, Jason lifted his head up and looked at the left breast, purring quietly and resting, fully rounded and relaxed. The right breast, all tensed up and fidgeting, annoyed Jason. So Jason climbed to the far side of the left breast and started licking it.

He licked more and more, and the breast became firm. He then reached for the nipple, tantalized it with a few nibbly bites. It stood straight up. He could hear a moaning sound come up from inside the breast, and he went back to the licking and nibbling, licking and nibbling. And he started to suck the nipple of the breast harder, and harder – until the moaning became more powerful.

And then Jason felt a little slap on his forehead. He looked up and saw Charlie’s face, twelve inches away.

“Damn it, Jason ...” Charlie said. “If you’re gonna wake me up and suck my cock, at least don’t treat it like a woman’s breast. Go down on me for real.”

The last time I pretended

“You wanna know somethin’,” Jason said to Charlie. “That football game was smokin’. The Oilers kicked those sissy Falcons’ butts.”

Charlie burped and scratched his balls. What a cliché, Jason thought – next thing you know, he’ll be talking about getting babes.

“Whaddaya say, dude, we go down to Hooters and get us a couple of babes for the night. I’m horny and need to plant one,” Charlie said. Jason felt a dull pressure behind his eyes.

“Buddy, I have to work tomorrow. You go hunt chicks yourself.”

A half hour after Charlie left, Jason sat down at his laptop in his underwear with a scotch and soda, and looked up Michael from Coral Gables. Sexy man – he wondered if he’d be interested in a hook-up. Of course he would, Jason thought – but how about with Jason?

Funny, the guy had the same hair patterns on his stomach as Charlie, even the same square jawline and black-framed glasses. And his dick had the same shape to it as Charlie’s, too – Jason wondered if Charlie’s stood up like this guys’ when he was hard. But he squelched the thought. Charlie’d freak out if he thought Jason pictured him naked, or any other guy for that matter. Shit, everyone Jason knew would freak out.

The laptop beeped – a message from Michael. Hey sexy stud wanna come over tonight and mess around?

And just as Jason was about to reply Sure, why don’t you come over here, he saw the word Breasts flash across the screen like the titles of Gone With the Wind in that Hollywood movie …

Television

Beaver’s mother had an affair with Mr. Rutherford and was forced out of Mayfield and secluded herself as a nun who could fly in San Diego. But the flying nun got off her bat-cycle and took off her habit. She tousled up her bobbed brown hair and shook her head side to side and purred in a soft-toned, “Oh, Donald!” to her new boyfriend. And then she drove to Minneapolis in a white Mustang coupe and got a job as associate producer of the WJM-TV news.

But after seven years, she got fired and worked as a waitress at Mel’s Diner in the desert, but that didn’t work out, so she married a reliable plumber and moved to Lanford, Illinois, gained lots and lots of weight, and had three kids who wise-cracked her all the time. But then she decided she was a lesbian who owned a bookstore in Los Angeles and told the whole world over an airport microphone, but the fall-out from that sent her to New York as sex columnist who had lots and lots of sex with Mr. Big, but then she got tired of Mr. Big and went to England to marry an earl and became a countess.

She did all this while retaining her youthful looks and calm demeanor. That’s because she’s woman, hear her roar.

In-between

“Your lordship is most kind,” Emily said, and made a curtsy to Lord Nautleigh.

“But of course, my young lady,” the earl said – and a small lump caught his throat at the sight of the Countess’s maid in waiting, blinking her eyes at the mention of the word kind.

“Will that be all, sir?” Emily said. “The Countess is in between charity events, and I must attend to her presently.”

The earl noticed how Emily’s eyes cast themselves downward at his persistent stare, how her lips pursed together and made a convex pattern of her cheeks, oh – so pretty, so innocent, so … unspoiled, nothing like the other girls of Warren’s youth, before nobility and kinship and duty proscribed his life, and Catherine – oh, the mother of his six sons – Catherine walked into his life. This Emily, this girl who noticed him, how he worshiped –

“And so you must,” the earl replied. “I shan’t detain you any longer, kind girl. Please excuse me.”

He bowed and clicked his heels together. And then he turned and walked toward the drawing room. Something in the way of a tear found its way to his left cheek.

Rain

"We can expect a light rain all day long," Marty Brubeck said to the cameras at WJW-TV News, casting a snarky smile into the cameras and then lowering his voice an octave, "and a 57 degree high for the day."

Marty smiled to himself. The rain would give him yet another excuse to spend the day at home pestering Martie for an afternoon siesta. He knew she'd say no and she knew he knew she'd say no, but they'd go through the routine anyway. It was their game. She only said yes on Tuesday evenings after Jeopardy and a light dinner of chicken livers and beets.

"Thanks, Marty, for the weather report for metropolitan Spokane," news anchor Marta Radetzky said, "and we all know how surprised we are to have another day of rain in December."

Marta laughed into the camera, and Marty made a grimace. Echoes of faint guffaws reverberated through the halls. Marty smirked some more. He knew the employees would kiss butt for Madame Radetzky. But he didn't really care. If he'd had a date in Portland, he would've cared. But no one who lived and worked in Spokane would care a whit about the rain.

"As surprised as I am, Marta. You never know how the weather's going to turn out," Marty said.

"Especially in a place with weather as unreliable as Spokane," Marta said. She looked into the camera and gave her best throaty laugh. Marty grimaces again. Some people were totally about themselves.

Making ends meet

Jonathan breathed all the way in and closed his eyes, and squeezed the pants button into the hole. Thank God – it made it. He let out his breath and then felt the terrible pushing on his stomach and his thighs. No matter, he’d buttoned the pants. He looked in the mirror – off-white jeans, brown cowboy boots, black tank top with the skull image in the middle. Perfect for his date with Carlo. So what if his hair was graying on the sides? He noticed the red blemish on his forearm again – Dr. Bernhardt would have to look at that one, yet again.

He walked out of the bedroom and passed the kitchen on his way out, avoiding the bills. Ever since Matthew had left, they’d seemed to pile up. But no worries – things would improve soon. They just had to. He was behind on the condo maintenance fee, he’d given up the cleaning lady, his bi-weekly massage therapist, his monthly manicure/pedicure, he’d cut back dinners out to twice a week instead of four times, and he’d even cancelled one of his three gym memberships.

But he wouldn’t cancel anything more – he needed to have a gym near work and one near home. Jonathan looked in the mirror before heading out the door again. He really would have to see Dr. Bernhardt. That red blemish on his arm would hurt his chances with Carlo – or whoever he ended up liking more than he should.

What a character!

Dharma grabbed her Ouija board and sashayed into the living rom with Benjamin and Matilda trailing behind her. The children, whose eyes popped out of their sockets at Aunt Dharma’s “come, children, let’s stir up the spirits and frighten the neighbors” and whose hearts pumped in anticipating wise pronouncements from the ghosts of Crazy Mr. Carruthers and Pithy Mrs. Pendleton, seemed to hang on every one of Dharma’s words.

Dharma smiled to herself. What else did she have to live for, but to bring excitement into these poor children’s lives? With Jeremy and Cloris as their parents and guardians, not to mention the Baptist Church of Southwestern Virginia, they deserved any mind-broadening experiences she could give them. They’d certainly never get it in Charlottesville.

Dharma sat down, Mr. Pendleton and Mrs. Carruthers across from her. The children sat on either side, staring intently at the Ouija board. Dharma spun it around and around. She closed her eyes, spread her arms above the board – and began to speak in a low tone.

“What is this I hear, Isabelle” Dharma intoned in the voice she remembered Wilbur Carruthers having,“that you’re sleeping with Austin Pendleton? Can this be my sainted Isabelle who remained faithful those thirty years?”

“How could he possibly know? And we were married forty years, not thirty –“

“Yes, Isabelle, I knew about that one, ten years before I died,” Dharma said, and then switched over to a squeaky soprano, “But you, Austin, why’d you promise Isabelle my mother’s diamond necklace? I wanted that to go to Jennifer … not to those nasty Carruthers brats.”

Dharma opened an eye to peak at Isabelle and Austin. They looked at each other and ran out. When they were gone, she burst out laughing – and the children followed her.

Awake

The alarm beeped its high-pitched squeak softly at first, as if to apologize, and then louder until Jake finally acknowledged its ferocity and slammed his wrist onto the machine. Twenty past four. Oh, well, must get up to make the plane. So Jake pulled his achy-breaky body out of the bed, naked and soft against the sheets with his perky nipples and flopping –

“Cut it out right now,” Jane wrote. “I’ve had enough porno-writing out of you this week, Jim.” So the writer apologized and got back to his daily rite.

So Jake, knowing he had to criss-cross the country from Florida to Oregon, all for the sake of arriving in Portland before noon, lumbered into the shower and then into the kitchen and then downstairs and then into the taxi and then to the airport and then into the airplane (first leg Houston) and then out and then back into another airplane (second leg Portland) and then out and then to baggage claim and then to the rental counter and then onto the highway and then into the hotel and then into the hotel room and then into the shower and then plop! Time to unpack.

“Damn,” Jake said to the strange walls. “I forgot to pack underwear.”

But hey, it’s Portland, right? The Left Coast, where anything goes? He’d go commando at this conference. It wasn’t like he was presenting or anything, was it? He’d just be attending. And if some cute young thing grabbed his attention, maybe he’d spread his legs just a little, enough to broadcast his interest ... and availability ...

“All right, I’ve had enough. Anymore sex talk, Jim, and I’ll relegate you to the sub list.”

Back to Jake the Virgin, the writer guessed, deciding Jake had better pack underwear after all. Might have a zipper incident like he did in Albuquerque.

Cracks in the wall

Blood splattered on the wall behind Jamie after George shot him through the shoulder. He could see it drip down the wall, into the cracks, and make octopus-legged patterns on the cement. George collapsed backward, hit his head on the wall, and sank into the ground. Open beer cans, cigarette butts, and grocery store receipts surrounded him. George’s eyes glazed over as he stared into a copy of M.A.D. Magazine six inches from his face.

Jamie looked around him at the Detroit intersection. No one seemed to have noticed what went down between the two of them. So what if he’d managed to get the coke without forking over his life’s savings? He had it made now, no question about it, now he could buy that Boca Raton condo his mother always wanted to have, just as soon as he managed to unload –

He heard the click of the revolver behind him.

“Don’t make a move, buddy. Drop the gun. Hands up in the air.”

Jamie turned around and saw the six-foot tall cop with the Clark Kent jawline and Superman physique. Perhaps fifteen feet away. Maybe he’d miss if Jamie ran in the other direction, maybe Jamie could get the shot off first. But then he saw the other guy, the partner with the wavy blond hair who grabbed his own gun out of its holster. And pointed it at Jamie.

He remembered the condo in Boca Raton, just outside his grasp.

So he crouched down, turned around, and ran for the side of the building. The last he remembered was this crushing pressure in his upper back. And then it all stopped.

On top

“Gilbert, your turn,” Sullivan said after the foreplay had lost its interest for him.

He could only take a blow job for so long before he got bored and began to lose his erection. I mean, really, a guy had to be really, really good at giving one to have any effect at all. Nine out of ten times, sucking it like a popsicle worked for about fifteen seconds. And then the rest of the time, he’d wonder how much longer the sucking would continue.

Sullivan supposed he shouldn’t be sharing this in writing with people three thousand miles away. But it’s tasteful sex, not tacky sex, he thought … or wondered. And the snippet’s going to San Francisco, the most open-minded vortex in the universe. Meanwhile, Gilbert made no attempt to slow down on Sullivan’s popsicle (if this were going to remain tasteful, perhaps sticking with the metaphor might help).

“Okay, Gilbert, time for some real action.” Sullivan put both hands on Gilbert’s shaved head and pulled it back. “Your turn on top.”

“Hey, I want the bottom this time.”

“Nah, you had it last time. Remember last Saturday after your mother left? You were so worn out, all you could do was lie there.”

“True. Okay, let’s see where it goes.” Yippee, Sullivan thought – now he could just lie there and like Gilbert do all the work. I mean, it wasn’t as if Sullivan didn’t do all the house chores like cleaning the floors, doing the laundry, and shopping for groceries. He didn’t always have to be on top, did he?

Gilbert lay on his back. “Okay, sit on me and let’s go for a ride.”

Oh, well, Sullivan thought. Even on bottom, he had to be on top.

Tiny

My mouth went dry and I held the receiver away from my ear a second. I looked around the room, dead and silent and all too white. A fly puttered upside down on the ceiling above me – the only sign that life inhabited the apartment, that and my heart beating like a drum in the valley of the Nile. Slow and marching toward unstoppable death.

“Cardiac arrest, like all of them. Principle cause. Secondary, renal failure. Shall I list you as the informant?”

I cannot recall what I muttered to the high-tenor-voiced resident, probably something about the hospital, where I could have the funeral home pick him up. But I could picture the green-eared fool, half happy to give important news to the next of kin, half jaded by the ordinariness of it in medical life. I could picture him – curly brown hair, a cowlick on his temple, fair skinned with a receding chin, and wearing big black glasses because if he didn’t, he’d squint all day long and his nose would end up looking like the one the Wicked Witch had. But he wouldn’t be green.

Ah, doctors. I guess they compensated for being plain and homely by making turd loaves of money so they could laugh at us behind their Mercedes-Benzes and their Louis Vuitton steamer trunks. Well, more power to Obamacare, all I have to say.

I hung up the receiver and forgot everything about the resident except the receding chin. And then I walked to the bedroom, prepared to collapse and have a good, long cry. But my dry mouth soon had the room spinning – and the bed went from gargantuan to tiny and back to gargantuan again – and when I next woke up, Charlotte stood above me, a crease in her brow and her lips in a round O, and question marks in her eyes.

“Charlotte –“

“Yes, darling,” she said, her voice velvet smooth, “I know. Just lie still, we’ll take it one step at a time. No rush.”

A mistake

“Why are the translations on your machine, but they’re not on my test machine? Did you run the script from the installation directory?”

“No –“ I said, knowing full well what was about to come. Would I keep my job, I wondered. “I ran the scripts from the defect report. They should be the same.”

Arnold rolled his eyes and his voice went a tone lower. “You never directly run the scripts yourself, Thomas. You execute the binary against the test machine. Got it? Otherwise it’s an invalid test. You know better than that, my friend.”

At least he called me his friend, I can grab onto that – but would I keep my job, even if I was his friend?

“You’re right. I acted too fast, my mistake.”

“Well, most people pay for their mistakes,” Arnold said and walked out of the room. I could hear the clanking of his shoes on the tile beneath his feet, like the rhythm of a warrior’s drum. So what price would I pay for my mistake?

My mouth went dry, my heart raced, and I took the biggest poop of my life that afternoon. But no word from Arnold. I was doomed.

Change of pace

The door slammed shut behind Lilly and she could feel the drop in pressure all the way to the insides of her eyelids. She looked around her at the dim room – a worn cloth sofa on the far side under the window, its cushions stained with cigarette burns, a rotted coffee table with rusty gold-painted legs, and a red leather potato chip chair. And then the lights went out.

Lilly heard a terrible scream from the other side of the door, the sound of creaking hinges, and then tip-toes from behind her. She sprinted forward and felt sharp talons on her back and a cutting laugh. Her heart raced as the talons tore into her silk blouse and then wrapped themselves around her torso and squeezed her rib cage. She tried screaming – but nothing came out except hoarse cries.

She wrestled the strange figure with the sharp talons back and forth, left to right, trying to break free. She could smell garlic, onions, and stale body odor from the figure’s breath, and finally managed to poke the figure’s midsection with her elbow. A groan came from behind her and she broke free. And ran and ran and ran –

Into something hard she assumed was the coffee table, and then she went down, face first into what must’ve been the sofa. She scrambled and fell between the two and, before she knew it, felt something flying above her, bumping into her temples, landing on her chest, screeching something high-pitched like a bad modem from the 1980s –

“Okay, cut,” the director said, and the lights came up. “Fine job, Lilly. Next time, though, land in the sofa, not on the coffee table? Let’s take fifteen. We need a change of pace here.”

What I really want to say

“So you want to move to Chicago,” Bill said, rolling his eyes. A deliberate gesture, he knew – hoping that Laurent would notice and respond.

“I’ve always wanted to move to Chicago,” Laurent answered, “and cut it out with the eyeball shit.”

Good, Bill thought – he noticed. “What ever do you mean? I’m just surprised, that’s all I’m saying. I always thought you loved Dubuque. It’s your home, Laurent – you were born and raised in Chicago. And no one ever really leaves Dubuque … your parents are here, even your grandmother.”

“True, but I’m bored stiff here. I don’t want to work the rest of my life as a cashier at the Eagle Country Market. I’m twenty-three years old, Bill – and I have a two-year associate’s degree in horticulture. You have any idea how much many I can make in Chicago, landscaping for the fat cats in Lincoln Park?”

Bill was hard pressed. Laurent had a point. But oh – oh, how Bill wanted him to stay. Those tender nights in winter, when the two of them had lain under heavy wool blankets and snuggled, those afternoons walking side-by-side along the Mississippi, and the summers of biking along secret paths, making love in the cornfields. How could he leave that?

“You’re right, Laurent – Chicago would be better for you.”

Hiking for three

“Thank you for inviting me today,” Jake said to Matthew and Steven. I’m excited about having a three-way this afternoon, Jake really thought.

They made their way up the hill toward Mount Tam. Matthew patted Steven on the behind. “Sure thing, buddy, we always like making new friends,” Steven said. We love playing with hot young guys after an afternoon of toying and flirting in the woods.

“How long have you guys been together?” Jake asked. I’ll bet they’re bored with each other.

“Thirteen years, first five I lived in Santa Fe before coming to San Francisco to be with Steven,” Matthew said, play punching Steven in the shoulder. See what I gave up for you, so I deserve this cute young boy even if you’re just going along for the ride.

“Wow, what a commitment,” Jake said. God, I’d never tie myself down like that.

“It’s a lot of work,” Steven said. Yeah, too much work and sometimes I ask myself, is it worth it.

“I second that,” Matthew said. It’s always too much work. Want to call it quits?

“It’s worth it, though. You guys really make a sexy couple,” Jake said. Okay, let’s get back to flirting. What I’m really saying is that I can see myself sandwiched between the two of you.

Running

The crowds roared with cheers that could’ve deafened any seasoned politician, but not Will Winton, the revered blue dress-smearing two-term pwesident.

“And who are we going to elect in two years to the highest office of the land?” he shouted into the microphone with his trademark index finger hand gesture and turn to the left side and biting of the lower lip.

“Willary! Willary! We want Willary!” the thousands chanted. Pandemonium ensued in the Wittle Wock awena.

“And let me introduce to you the next president, my beloved wife Willary,” former President Winton said to thunderous applause. Will continued his introduction for another five hours twenty-five minutes.

Will finally paused with a big bweath. “And in conclusion, it is a distinct honor and a high privilege to introduce former New Work senator and Secwetawy of State, our next president, Willary Wodham Winton!”

In came Willary in a blue and pink pantsuit, waving to the crowd, her eyes bursting in surprise and pointing and waving to friends in the crowd. She gave a lovely speech announcing her intention to run for pwesident and pwomised she’d only give four thousand policy speeches and wear fifty-five pantsuits during the campaign.

Editor Nielsen finished reading his famous correspondent’s report.

“Damn it all, anyway,” Nielsen said. “Who had the wise idea to hire Elmer Fudd as a political correspondent anyway?”

It's not big enough

Blaise looked at his pip-squeak of a boyfriend Dana, the ash blond twinkette he’d tried to dump six or seven times before. Why’d he keep going back to him, when every time he flaked out on him and slept with his old boyfriend Kent? No one to blame but himself, Blaise told himself over and over, no one to blame but himself.

“Get out of the apartment,” he said, so loud that the neighbors must’ve heard. At least, he hoped they’d heard. “You lying son-of-a-bitch queen, I never want to see you again, you limp-wristed prancing fairy poor excuse for a man.”

Blaise looked across the room to Dana’s mouse trap sculpture perched on a faux marble stand. “And take that stupid mouse trap with you. I never liked having it and if it’s here another second, I’ll toss it out the window onto Second Avenue.”

“Well,” Dana said, tossing his head to the side. “I never!”

“Oh, don’t go all Joan Crawford on me, you idiot. I’ve had enough of your theatrics. No Academy Award for you. Just a golden turd.”

“To think I gave you the best years of my life. To think –“

“You little slut, you gave the best years of your life to that piece of swamp pussy called Kent. I repeat, get out and take that damned mouse trap with you.”

“Talk like this, you’re sure as hell not getting any sex out of me for a while.”

Blaise gasped and then looked down at Dana’s crotch, concave as always. “Huh? You think I want it? You think I ever wanted it, Miss Princess Teeny-Weeny?”

Dana’s eyes narrowed. “How dare you!”

“How dare you!” And with this, Blaise strolled over to the mouse trap, picked it up, and took it over to the window. “See what I’m going to do!”

Dana ran over and grabbed for the mouse trap, but missed – and fell out the window himself.

“Oh, no!” Blaise said. “Dana, love of my life, please don’t die!”

Much to her surprise

The empty bottle of vodka stared at Kate when the bright sun shone in the window and woke her up. She felt the morning sun on her cheeks as she looked down at the floor. Next to the bottle were her panties, white high heels turned upside down, and candy wrappers.

Oh, what a headache Kate had, as she stood up, and wrapped her bathrobe around her. Goodness, these San Francisco June mornings were cold. She’d had enough of them, really. It seemed that ever since Tom had left last November, the weather had taunted her with day after day of damp, cold fog. Yes, she knew Portola Hill always had fog, but Tom had wanted to live here … Tom. She practically spat out the bad taste of his name.

She walked over to the desk. Her last severance check from Generiplex. Eight weeks she’d been living on those checks. She had enough savings for three more months’ rent, but then what? She looked underneath the Generiplex envelope – a letter from Carlene. Her nauseating sister from El Paso, married to Bud the truck driver and mother to Billy, Laurie, and Jimmy. All those stupid y-names.

Kate went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. Empty except for a bottle of V-8 and a grapefruit. Who’d ever drink a glass of vegetable juice after eating a grapefruit? The thought made her stomach lurch and Judy ran for the can.

Ten minutes later, the bitter taste still in her mouth, she took the phone off the hook and dialed the number.

“Carlene,” she heard herself say into the receiver, much to her own surprise, after introductions and a small cry of joy from the other end, “I was thinking about coming to El Paso on a Southwest tour. It’d be lovely to visit you for a while.”

Last night

Last night my marriage wasn’t legal in my own home. But today it is. I jumped for joy as I cleaned the pet bowls, fed the pets, cleaned out the kitty litter, fed the bird, took the dog for a walk, had my own breakfast. I whistled in the shower, I walked to the car with a light step, I put the top down and rode to work al fresco, and I made a stop at the Starbucks and got my infrequent indulgence, a venti white chocolate mocha for $5.04. Why not splurge for once?

Oh, what a beautiful morning. I could now finally do what I wanted to do, what I’ve been wanting for months and months. Ever since I got back home and realized … with dread … my marriage wasn’t legal in my home state. But now it was, and now I could do exactly as I pleased.

I called Jack’s office and asked to speak with him. He’d be pleased, too, no doubt … and finally it could happen. Finally I could be free to do what I wanted the most. Finally I could be free, period.

“Jack,” I said when he came to the phone, “I’d like to file for divorce. Can we do that now? I don’t want to wait a single day.”

Directly in front of me

The clock chimed at five o’clock and the room became silent. The squeaking sneakers of a nurse walking down the hallway could be heard from outside the room; the gentle breeze whistling against the window made its way to their ears. But to Charlie, frozen in a moment that had waited more than fifty years to come, there existed nothing but silence, dead silence.

He began to sense movement in the room, his sister’s bobbing of her head, her body beginning to shake, his brother covering his eyes with his hands, his niece standing there, her mouth open, gawking at the sight from the bed, and his father, his face like stone, staring into space. But Charlie, his own eyes transfixed on the yellowing face of his mother, was reluctant to shift his eyes, to look at them.

Charlie thought someone should close her mouth. And her eyes. But they weren’t hers, were they? The body looked familiar, but there was nothing inside it that was actually her, the essence of his mother. The mother who’d rocked him in her arms when he hurt himself on the stone driveway that one time, so many years ago – the mother who’d punished him with that ruler when he ran away to Billy’s to smoke pot at twelve – the mother who’d etched out tears when he’d married Sara, and then had held him in her arms, absorbing his sobs after Sara deserted him. That mother was no longer inside that body.

Charlie had always wondered what it’d feel like when they went, and now he knew. And then the tears came, salty tears that melted Charlie. He could taste the saline in his mouth, he could hear the gasps in his throat, and he could smell the pungent saltiness in his nose. His niece came over to him and hugged him close. Somehow they’d get through this.

Allow me to introduce myself ... again

“One must at all times,” Dallas said to me, “be dressed to kill. And that includes your hair. What are we doing for this event, Jim?”

I took a look at myself in the mirror. Thank God I was born a redhead. Even at fifty-one I could hide the gray without coloring my hair and exposing me to all those derisive “look at that old queen” jousts. The beard would have to go, of course. My family wouldn’t like it, and my father’s friends would look askance.

“Something conservative, something proper. My parents were Episcopalians and Republicans, after all.”

“Got it,” Dallas said and rolled his eyes. “Know what you mean. I was from Dubuque, and when my father –“

“Sorry to interrupt, but what time is it getting to be? I need to be on the road before noon.”

“Don’t be so impatient. Didn’t the mani-pedi do anything for you?”

“Oh, all right. But Atlanta is seven hundred miles and I’d like to get there before midnight.”

“Never you fear, Dallas is here.”

I knew I could count on Dallas. Unlike my soon-to-be-ex-boyfriend, who refused my request to babysit the pets so I could make this trip. Couldn’t believe it when Mike said a resounding no when I asked him. Never mind that he’d been the one to poke and prod me into getting a parrot and two cats in addition to my dog Chester the Lunatic. And then when I bitched at him about stepping up to the plate under these circumstances – who wouldn’t? – he turned around and yelled at me. And at such a time!

“So what’s new with you, Jim?” Dallas asked. I could tell by his squiggly eyebrows he noticed I was a million miles away. But he didn’t know what Mike had done. No one did.

“Oh, I’ve just been so preoccupied by my father. It’s a relief, really, after all these years. And he didn’t have to endure the final stage of Alzheimer’s. Pneumonia took him first.”

Seven hours later I crossed the border into Georgia. Thank heaves I was leaving the orange state. Why’d they call it that? No particular reason they should insult the orange, that armpit of a state I’d lived in off-and-on-again for nearly a score of years. I hated Florida. No, I hate Florida. Those men with their toupes and flashy Jaguars and the women with their basketball tits and black clothes and Botox foreheads and Barbara Hershey lips. I’d rather have the pasty-white Georgia rednecks ...

I’d see my mother in just four hours. Poor thing, who’d have ever thought she’d survive Dad? No one did, not after that humungous stroke. Four years ago. She’d survived a stroke only ten percent ever survived longer than a month – and here we were, four years later, Mom about to bury the husband who’d been perfectly healthy when her brain went “Pop, goes the weasel.” Who’d have ever thought a woman could be such a survivor, such a strong woman?

But of course, this was the woman who gave birth to me. Now if that didn’t make for a strong woman, nothing did.